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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26360518">except this to thee</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/torielle/pseuds/torielle'>torielle</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>DCU</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Hospitals, Surgery, UNCLE CLARK, sometimes you just have to co-parent a teenager with your best friend totally normal</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:00:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,172</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26360518</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/torielle/pseuds/torielle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>If it were anyone else, any other pair of people, perhaps Clark might feel rather out of place, intruding on something too intimate for his presence, but he’s been a part of this unit for so many years he thinks he’s almost gone beyond the title of <i>uncle</i>, now. It’s so hard to imagine anyone else ever being a part of this, between Bruce, Dick and himself.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clark Kent &amp; Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson &amp; Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson &amp; Clark Kent</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>254</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>except this to thee</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Big thanks as always to Nicole for American-picking/various reassurances ...</p><p>Title from Elizabeth Barrett Browning's <i>I never gave a lock of hair away</i>.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>--</p><p>“I believe he would prefer the dog to the cat.”</p><p>Clark smirks, before glancing over his shoulder at Alfred.</p><p>“These are really for little kids, not teenagers,” he laughs, gesturing at the helium balloons he’s been studying in the corner of the hospital gift shop; the dog is gripping a first aid kit between its teeth. Alfred smiles.</p><p>“All the more reason to purchase one,” he says. “Master Dick could do with some cheering up, I believe.”</p><p>Something turns in Clark’s stomach - Bruce had texted him after the surgery that morning to say it went fine, and that Dick was in recovery. It was a routine procedure, one that he and Bruce had researched heavily for the last week so they knew exactly what Dick would be in for; a straightforward surgery, to mend the ligaments damaged in his shoulder from a dislocation a few months ago. A souvenir from a mission, as usual.</p><p>Robin’s first mission with Superman and Wonder Woman, without Batman.</p><p>Alfred catches the mild panic on his face.</p><p>“All went well,” he tells him. “But he is somewhat groggy, and feeling rather nauseous from the anaesthetic.”</p><p>“Poor kid,” Clark sighs. He grabs the string of the dog balloon, and follows Alfred to the cashier. “I won’t grab any chocolates then, like I was planning. What are you down here getting? This isn’t really your scene, no offence.”</p><p>Alfred holds up the newspaper in his hand.</p><p>“Master Bruce likes to do the New York Times crossword puzzle. He plans to stay here for the rest of the day, and I’d rather he had something besides work to occupy him.”</p><p>Clark shakes his head.</p><p>“I’ve told him a hundred times that he can do it on his tablet,” he says. “That man has the most modern technology at his disposal, and yet still insists on buying a physical newspaper.”</p><p>“So complains the journalist of print media,” Alfred murmurs, and if Clark didn’t know him as well as he did, he’d probably miss the ghost of a smirk that flickers across his mouth. He glances up at the balloon as Clark pockets his change. “Come along, Mr. Kent - that gift will be much appreciated, I assure you.”</p><p>Clark follows him from the gift shop to the hospital’s fifth floor, and they pass numerous wings and wards bearing the Wayne name before they reach Dick’s. He has a private room at the far end of the ward, close to the nurse’s station, and Alfred holds the door open for Clark.</p><p>Bruce is standing beside the bed, looking at his watch with two fingers at Dick’s wrist, timing his pulse.</p><p>“A little elevated,” he tells Alfred, without looking up from his watch. “But no more than would be expected.”</p><p>“Probably the nausea,” Alfred says quietly. “Asleep again?”</p><p>Bruce nods, gently placing Dick’s wrist back down on the bed. He finally notices Clark, and smiles tightly - which, Clark knows, is practically beaming for Bruce, under these circumstances.</p><p>“Hey,” he murmurs. “Didn’t think we’d get a visit from you until later, it’s barely midday. He’ll like that,” he adds, nodding at the balloon.</p><p>“I took an early lunch. Lois and I need to work late on a story anyway.” Clark loops the balloon string around the rail at the foot of the bed. “How’s he doing?”</p><p>“Uncomfortable,” Bruce sighs. </p><p>“He needs more pillows,” Alfred says, voice soft. He joins Bruce at the side of the bed, and his fingers dip to check Dick’s pulse himself. “He needs as much support on that side as possible, otherwise he won’t sleep properly. I’ll make sure someone finds some, and have a look at ordering a body pillow for when he’s home.”</p><p>Alfred releases Dick’s wrist, carefully bending his arm so his hand rests on his stomach, over the bed sheets. Clark leaves the foot of the bed, quietly pulling up a chair so he’s sitting on the other side of the bed, and finally looks down at Dick’s face. He looks pale, his mouth open slightly, and he looks younger than sixteen. </p><p>Clark’s eyes sting on instinct - it’s not the first time he’s seen Dick like this, unconscious and injured on a gurney, but there’s a twist of despair that never goes away when you’ve known a kid like Dick for seven years. It isn’t any easier seeing him in this situation at sixteen than it was at ten or eleven years old. Clark blinks, forcing himself to breathe properly, to focus on Dick.</p><p>His hair is tangled a little on the pillow, dark around his face, and his left arm is tucked against his chest in a brace. His hospital gown is open around his shoulder, and his tanned skin is wrapped with bandages.</p><p>“Can you see the wound?” Bruce murmurs. </p><p>Clark focuses, staring beneath the bandages as best as he can; it’s taken years of practise to control the depth of his vision. He can see the staples in Dick’s shoulder, beneath the dressings. He imagines the skin around the incision is stained a rust colour from the iodine.</p><p>“Looks good to me,” he tells Bruce quietly. “But I’m not a surgeon.”</p><p>They fall silent for a while, and Alfred busies himself with tucking the sheets properly around Dick’s torso, careful not to move him too much. Clark focuses on listening to Dick’s heartbeat, watching his eyelids flicker. He wishes he was sitting on the other side of the bed, so he could touch Dick’s arm, or something.</p><p>“Here,” Alfred says, pulling a comb from the overnight bag he no doubt packed for Dick himself. “Make yourself useful.”</p><p>Bruce smiles, taking the comb. He’s painfully careful, brushing Dick’s hair back from his forehead and gently easing the comb through the tangles. Alfred watches him with a frown.</p><p>“It’s getting far too long,” he says, shaking his head.</p><p>“It’s lovely,” Bruce murmurs. Clark catches the smile Alfred hides, unpacking Dick’s pyjamas and toothbrush.</p><p>“I’m always surprised by how long it is, each time I see it,” Clark says, catching Bruce’s eye. “I guess it’s getting too easy to identify him, now.”</p><p>Dick’s hair reaches past his jaw, now - there have been jokes in the League that Robin will start wearing a ponytail, soon, which Diana has silenced by tossing her own hair over her shoulder, and then adding that perhaps Robin would like a tiara like hers to keep his hair from his face in battle.</p><p>“When he cuts it,” Bruce says, carefully lifting Dick’s head so he can run the comb through the back of his hair. “I’m going to keep a lock of it.”</p><p>Clark grins.</p><p>“My mom did that, after my first haircut. She keeps it in her nightstand.”</p><p>Bruce smiles down at Dick, smoothing his combed hair back from his face, his thumb lingering at Dick’s cheekbone. It’s so tender it makes Clark’s chest burn.</p><p>“Shall I seek out some sort of antique locket for you to keep it in? Wear it around your neck always? That’ll look fetching with the cowl,” Alfred comments, voice thick with sarcasm. Clark stifles a laugh as Dick’s eyelids flicker.</p><p>“No,” Bruce laughs quietly. “My mother had a box I’m going to keep it in. The one with the mother of pearl inlay, on her dressing table.”</p><p>“Sentimental old man,” a voice mumbles. </p><p>Dick’s eyes are barely open, and before he says anything else he winces.</p><p>“Sore?” Bruce asks.</p><p>“Not that bad,” Dick rasps. “But - I still feel really sick.”</p><p>“That will last for some time, I’m afraid,” Alfred says. “General anaesthetic is no small undertaking.”</p><p>“You have a visitor,” Bruce, murmurs, squeezing Dick’s free hand. </p><p>Dick glances around, dredging up a weak smile.</p><p>“You think I couldn’t hear him? I was trying to sleep you know, Uncle Clark.”</p><p>“Sorry kiddo,” Clark smiles. Something that was tying itself into a knot inside of him all morning finally eases a little, seeing Dick’s eyes open and somewhat clear. “Couldn’t stay away.”</p><p>“I can’t promise I won’t puke on you,” Dick grimaces. His eyes flutter closed.</p><p>“I shall fetch a bowl,” Alfred says curtly, leaving the room.</p><p>Dick struggles for a moment on the bed, trying to jerk his arm in the brace.</p><p>“Hey, stop that,” Bruce tells him firmly, pressing his good shoulder down against the mattress.</p><p>“I want to sit up,” Dick pants. “My balance is all off now -”</p><p>Clark snorts, and grabs for the controls connected to the bed.</p><p>“There are buttons for that, Dickie,” he says. “The bed sits up for you.”</p><p>Dick grins, a little breathless, and closes his eyes as Clark brings the head of the bed further up, so Dick is almost sitting upright. Without thinking, Clark starts fussing, tucking one of his pillows beneath the brace his arm is folded into.</p><p>“You’re as bad as Alfred,” Bruce smirks.</p><p>“Did you bring that?” Dick nods at the balloon, bobbing away at the foot of the bed. “Cool, looks like Krypto. Thanks, Uncle Clark.”</p><p>“You’re welcome,” Clark smiles. He reaches out to ruffle Dick’s hair, but Dick ducks out of reach.</p><p>“Sorry, I’m just worried you’re going to start snipping off locks of it to keep in your nightstand.”</p><p>He’s looking up at Bruce, grinning. Bruce smiles fondly down at him, and - if it were anyone else, any other pair of people, perhaps Clark might feel rather out of place, intruding on something too intimate for his presence, but he’s been a part of this unit for so many years he thinks he’s almost gone beyond the title of <i>uncle</i>, now. It’s so hard to imagine anyone else ever being a part of this, between Bruce, Dick and himself.</p><p><i>I love you like you’re my own,</i> he thinks to himself, watching as Dick’s face goes pale again, and Bruce grabs for the bowl Alfred has found. He helps Bruce hold Dick’s hair back as he buries his face in the bowl, and lets his fingers tighten a fraction around the soft locks between them. Just for a moment.</p><p>--</p><p>He hears it a little after three in the morning; he’s had a handful of hours worth of sleep, having left the <i>Planet</i> office at ten, and had been awake finishing up some research for the story he and Lois were working on when Bruce says his name, calmly, soft enough that Clark knows it’s not an emergency.</p><p>“Clark.”</p><p>He finds Bruce exactly where he knew he’d be, at the top of Gotham City National Bank, and perhaps that predictability is what had Clark awake in the first place, waiting for Bruce to call him.</p><p>It’s raining, and Batman is sitting crouched beside one of the gargoyles. Clark knows that he picked this side of the building because it faces the side of town where Gotham Memorial is. Clark hovers in front of him, automatically scanning him quickly, squinting through the rain. No broken bones that he can see - nothing new, at least.</p><p>“Everything okay?”</p><p>Bruce nods; Clark has spent almost nine years reading Bruce by his jaw, thanks to the cowl, and it’s as difficult as ever.</p><p>“I’m sorry to call you so late.”</p><p>“It’s alright. You know you can call me anytime.”</p><p>Bruce nods again, his gaze still staring beyond where Clark hovers before him. It’s cold out, even Clark can tell that - if this were a standard patrol for Batman, even just a few years ago, Clark wouldn’t have been surprised to see Robin huddled beneath Batman’s cape, grumbling about the weather. </p><p>Batman looks startlingly alone, up here in the rain, without his brightly coloured shadow.</p><p>Bruce clears his throat.</p><p>“I - I need you to do me a favour. Please.”</p><p>Anyone else might take the hesitancy with which Bruce gets those words out as a reluctance to ask for help, but Clark knows it’s more to do with Bruce being so caught in his thoughts that sometimes, it’s like his brain disengages from his mouth for a while. <i>Not everyone has the patience for Master Bruce</i>, Alfred told him once. <i>But all he really requires is someone to wait for him to catch up.</i></p><p>“Of course. Name it.”</p><p>Bruce swallows, and finally his gaze meets Clark’s. He disengages the lenses in the cowl, and his eyes are, as always, a hauntingly bright blue in the night air. </p><p>“The hospital; he has to stay overnight. I wanted to - just to look in through the window. Check on him.” He clears his throat again. “But - if I go -”</p><p>Clark’s already nodding.</p><p>“Sure. I’ll check on him.”</p><p>“If I go,” Bruce continues, and his mouth flickers with a wry little grin. “I won’t leave.”</p><p>“I’m glad you understand the concept of giving people space,” Clark smiles. “Any messages to convey? Beyond using your phone, at least.”</p><p>“Just - tell him I’ll be there, first thing tomorrow.”</p><p>“You got it,” Clark nods.</p><p>Bruce’s jaw softens a little - he must have been clenching his teeth. He flashes Clark another little smile.</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>“Anytime, B,” Clark says, and before Bruce can protest he floats forwards, and wraps him in a hug.</p><p>Bruce’s arms come up after a moment, and squeeze Clark back.</p><p>Clark leaves Batman where he found him, crouched in the rain and staring out across the city towards the hospital, and Clark imagines he’ll stay there a little longer, at least.</p><p>--</p><p>Dick is awake when Clark appears at the window, reading a book by the light of a tiny lamp on his nightstand, and the way he cheerily waves through the glass tells Clark that he’d been expecting a visit like this. </p><p>He really only intended to check on him quickly, and head home to report into Bruce and go back to sleep, but before he can stop him Dick has slipped out of bed, and is opening the window.</p><p>“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” Clark admonishes, but he climbs through all the same, easing the window shut behind him. “You couldn’t even sit up by yourself, earlier.”</p><p>He can see the balloon still drifting where it’s tied to the rail at the foot of the bed.</p><p>“An acrobat adjusts quickly,” Dick says, but he accepts Clark’s help climbing back onto the bed. Someone - probably Bruce - has helped him change out of the hospital gown into a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms; Superman pyjamas, Clark can’t help noticing with a grin. Sometimes he’s certain Dick only wears them to make Bruce roll his eyes.</p><p>“You really should be asleep,” Clark says, tucking the sheets back around Dick as he shrugs his good shoulder.</p><p>“I slept all day,” he sighs, and now he looks tired, and fed up. “I basically missed Bruce being here. What a waste.”</p><p>“I imagine Bruce would rather have been here watching you sleep than watching you struggle to fight off the anesthesia,” Clark tells him. He’s careful as he pulls up the chair he’d sat in earlier that day; Dick’s door is closed, but Clark’s certain his presence will be very unwelcome if one of the nurses hears them. </p><p>“That shit’s the worst,” Dick grumbles. “I’ve had local, before, but - I’ve never been completely under. It sucks - I still feel like I’m going to puke if I move too quickly, and Alfred says it could be days and <i>days</i> before that goes away.”</p><p>“Language,” Clark chides softly. He finds himself mirroring Bruce and Alfred, from earlier, and automatically dipping two fingers to Dick’s wrist. His pulse is steady and calm.</p><p>Dick closes his eyes, settling back against his pillows, and Clark watches him for a long moment, fingers still loosely wrapped around his wrist. Dick still looks pale, the skin beneath his eyes tinged purple. With his eyes closed, face as close to relaxed as it’ll come whilst he’s awake, he’s barely a hairbreadth away from the eleven year old Clark remembers coming to spend the night at his apartment, who would always fall asleep on Clark twenty minutes into whichever film he’d picked for them to watch, without fail.</p><p>He’d always been a tactile child, in the same way Clark remembers being himself, with his parents - he’d climbed onto Clark’s lap within ten minutes of meeting him at nine years old, in the cave one evening not long after Dick became Robin, a hand clasped loosely in Clark’s sweater for balance. It had been pure instinct that had Clark wrapping his arms around that small body, pulling him against his chest. He’d been so warm, and his head had always tucked so naturally against Clark’s neck.</p><p>Dick’s eyes flicker open again, and he smiles tiredly at him. Clark reaches forward to brush his hair from his face.</p><p>“So,” he says, glancing at the book lying facedown on the bedsheets, spine cracked - <i>The Mirror Crack’d</i>. A favourite of Bruce’s, no doubt. “Are you expecting many visitors, tomorrow?”</p><p>Dick hums.</p><p>“I think I might have a few - depends on when they let me go home. Bruce wants to take me home in the morning, but I don’t know if they’ll release me that quick.” He levels Clark with a tired little grin. “I’ve gotta say, it is weird, being in a proper hospital. Having to wait to be properly discharged.”</p><p>Something burns down Clark’s spine at the ease with which Dick says this, on the brink of laughter.</p><p>“Don’t,” he shakes his head, and he has to close his eyes for a moment. How many times has he sat beside a bed, or a gurney, like this - Dick bruised and bloodied, still determinately smiling at him through the pain.  “I - I hate thinking about how often you’ve been in a position like this.”</p><p>“Hey, this is my first surgery,” Dick says, and his hand squeezes around Clark’s forearm. </p><p>“You know that’s not what I mean,” Clark tells him, and when he looks back up at Dick he can feel how damp his eyes are. “It doesn’t help that it’s my fault you’re even here.”</p><p>“Stop it,” Dick says, and his voice is firm - firm enough that it echoes a little in the dark room. “I’m not listening to you or Diana saying that anymore. It is <i>not</i> your fault, or her’s - if she hadn’t grabbed me, I’d have <i>died</i>, Uncle Clark.”</p><p>It’s indecent, how easily the memory resurfaces each time - Dick falling, grapple gun jammed, Diana shouting out and reaching for him. The lasso had wrapped around Robin’s wrist, and the force of it pulling him up against his body falling had wrenched his shoulder from its socket. Clark still remembers Dick’s scream. They’d been in Paris; Dick wasn’t even supposed to be there as Robin. He’d been on a school trip, and got caught up in Clark and Diana’s chase for some alien tech.</p><p>“Please don’t cry,” Dick says now, voice achingly soft, and he grunts as he leans forward to bring his head close to Clark’s. “You cried enough putting my shoulder back in.”</p><p>Clark laughs, wetly, and he accepts the tissue Dick passes him from the nightstand. </p><p>“Can you blame me, Dickie? It was - it was awful.”</p><p>Dick had been so calm, but quiet - except for the little gasp of pain he’d made, when the bone stopped grinding against the socket and finally slid back into place. Clark had stayed as quiet as he could, too - except his breath had kept hitching, and his eyes were treacherously damp.</p><p>“At least you’ve come to see me,” Dick says, and he leans back against the pillows again, looking a little morose. “Diana hasn’t. She hasn’t spoken to me in months. Won’t even look at me, when I come to the Watchtower.”</p><p>Clark sighs.</p><p>“Bruce was - very angry, about what happened.”</p><p>“Mostly at <i>me</i>,” Dick counters. “And even that wasn’t entirely at me, more just that he’d wanted me to go on a normal school trip like a normal kid, and was upset that I got caught up in all of that.”</p><p>It’s a testament to how mature he is, really, despite looking small and breakable tucked up in the hospital bed, one arm braced against himself, that he’s been able to see straight through Bruce’s anger for what it really is - or, perhaps, a testament to how well he knows Bruce.</p><p>Clark lets out another sigh, and Dick’s hand wraps back around his forearm.</p><p>“Wally and Donna are visiting tomorrow,” he tells him. “She could join them. It - it would be less pressure, maybe, if it’s not just her on her own.”</p><p>Clark smiles.</p><p>“That’s very thoughtful of you, Dick.”</p><p>Dick opens his mouth to respond, but Clark holds up a hand to suddenly quiet him.</p><p>“Nurse, coming down the corridor.”</p><p>Dick sighs.</p><p>“They need to take my blood pressure,” he grumbles. “This’ll be the fourth time they’ve done it. Can you hide?”</p><p>Clark nods, and he’s hovering flat against the ceiling by the time the nurse quietly opens the door.</p><p>“You should be sleeping, Mr. Grayson,” she shakes her head.</p><p>“I wanted to be ready for you,” Dick replies, his grin as charming as ever despite his obvious tiredness. </p><p>Clark waits whilst she takes his blood pressure, and helps adjust his pillows. </p><p>“Try and get some sleep, young man,” she tells him. Clark drifts down as she closes the door behind her.</p><p>“You’re clearly in capable hands.”</p><p>“Eh, I miss Alfie,” Dick laughs quietly. He does look very tired, his hair soft on the pillow around his head. “Even though his hands are always cold. And he’d do a better job with the IV than they did,” he adds, waving his hand; the skin is lightly bruised around the needle.</p><p>Clark sighs, dredging up a weak smile. Dick rolls his eyes.</p><p>“Don’t go getting all emotional, again. You don’t need to worry about me, Uncle Clark. Like you said - I’m in capable hands. Even more so when I finally go home.”</p><p>“I have to worry about you,” Clark says. “You’re the only nephew I’ve got.”</p><p>Dick grins.</p><p>“That reminds me,” he says, and Clark watches him fumble under the sheets for something with his good arm. </p><p>“Where the <i>hell</i> did you get those?” Clark asks, as Dick retrieves a pair of scissors.</p><p>“Language, Uncle Clark,” he chides. “I may have swiped them from a nurse’s tray when they let me walk unassisted to the toilet, earlier.”</p><p>“And why, exactly, did you require scissors?”</p><p>“To do this,” Dick grins.</p><p>He tilts his head to one side, brandishing the scissors, and Clark feels his heart jerk in his chest as Dick’s hand moves towards his hair.</p><p>“Wait - <i>stop</i> -”</p><p>Dick laughs, louder than he should, the sound of it wonderfully merry as it bounces around the room, and Clark finds himself grinning too.</p><p>“Alright,” Dick says, and he passes Clark the scissors. “You can do it.”</p><p>Clark frowns.</p><p>“Do - what, exactly?”</p><p>Dick smiles.</p><p>“Cut a lock. I heard most of that conversation, earlier. I promise not to tell Bruce that you got yours before him.”</p><p>Clark chuckles.</p><p>“So you are getting it all cut, then?” </p><p>The thought of it aches, like a sore tooth - Dick looks good whatever the length of his hair, but there’s always been something so lovely and easy about how he’d let it grow, the last couple of years, and how Bruce hadn’t stopped him. </p><p>“Not for another couple of months,” Dick says, shrugging his good shoulder. “I want to see how long Alfred can go pretending he doesn’t hate it.”</p><p>“He doesn’t hate it,” Clark smiles. “He’s just a bit more traditional, I suppose. I like it, like this - it really suits you.”</p><p>“I think my mom would say the same thing,” Dick smiles. Something flickers in his eyes, and it could be sadness - or rather, nostalgia. <i>Pain from an old wound, it translates as,</i> Diana had told Clark once. “She always had long hair. I loved it. After she - when they died. I wished I could have kept some of her hair. To remember her. It was so pretty.”</p><p>Clark smiles, and finds Dick’s hand on the sheets, squeezing it. </p><p>“Well, it’s an honour to have a lock of the Grayson hair.”</p><p>Dick grins, and tilts his head again. He pulls his hair out of the way, until a few of the shorter locks fall behind his ears. Clark reaches forward and carefully snips one away.</p><p>“You should knot it, at the end,” Dick says, nodding as Clark rolls it between his fingers, looping it arounds itself to fasten it. It’s almost the length of his palm.</p><p>Clark closes his fingers around it.</p><p>“Thank you,” he says, smiling. He hopes it’s enough to convey the warmth spreading through him at the softness between his fingers. It feels achingly precious.</p><p>“Don’t tell Bruce,” Dick laughs. “He’ll have to wait.”</p><p>Clark can tell he’s about to yawn before he even opens his mouth, and when he does it leaves him looking exhausted.</p><p>“Come on,” Clark tells him, and he puts the scissors on the nightstand. “You should sleep.”</p><p>“Will you stay? Until I’m asleep, I mean,” Dick asks. His voice is rough, now. He sounds younger than sixteen.</p><p>“Of course. I’ll read to you, if you want.”</p><p>They turn out the light, because Clark doesn’t need it, and Dick barely makes it through two pages before he’s sleeping, head turned to the side on the pillow, the sheets tucked around where his arm is folded into the brace.</p><p>Clark pulls out his phone, and takes the best grainy photo he can in the gloom to send to Bruce - otherwise he’ll worry, Clark knows. He folds the corner of the page they reached, and leaves the book on the nightstand, before carefully pressing a kiss to Dick’s forehead. He pauses, fingers brushing Dick’s face as he listens to his breathing, slow and steady in the darkness; Dick’s hair tickles softly against his cheek.</p><p>--</p><p>He knows he can call Diana any time of day or night, but he purposely waits until it’s after nine in the morning her time.</p><p>“Clark,” she greets, voice warm. “I’d say good morning, but it’s not quite that time for you. Have you slept at all?”</p><p>“Hey, Di,” he smiles to himself. He drops down onto the bed, settling against the headboard and stifling a yawn. “I’ve slept a little. I just got back from the hospital - Dick’s surgery was yesterday.”</p><p>Diana falls silent, and Clark fights a sigh. Her reaction isn’t unexpected. </p><p>“And,” Clark continues. “I know he’d really appreciate a visit. He’s meant to be discharged at some point today, but I know you’d be welcome at the hospital or when he gets back to the Manor.”</p><p>“Clark,” Diana says, and her voice is rough, barely louder than a whisper. “I - you know why I can’t.”</p><p>Clark closes his eyes, bringing up a finger and thumb to pinch between his brows. It’s been a long night following a long day.</p><p>“If it’s about Bruce,” Clark tells her, sighing. “You know as well as I do that he’s not angry anymore. He was barely angry with us in the first place. You were the one who was angry, to be honest - scolding him for letting a non-meta in the field -”</p><p>“You know perfectly well why I reacted that way,” Diana snaps, and Clark’s glad he opted for a phone call rather than flying straight to her apartment; he knows how her face must look right now, distressed and pained. He doesn’t think he could have taken it, seeing her look like that in person. “I was furious with myself, with <i>us</i> - he’s just a boy, Clark, and we <i>hurt</i> him -”</p><p>“You saved his life,” Clark argues back. “If you hadn’t caught him, he’d have died. He said it himself to me, this evening. No one blames you, Di. Not at all.”</p><p>She falls silent, and he listens to her crying softly, a hand over his eyes. Now, he wishes he was with her. Even if just to hold her hand, so she could know that he cares.</p><p>“Please go see him,” Clark says, once her breathing has settled a little. “I’ll go with you, if you want. He’s miserable without you - you know he needs us just as much as he needs Bruce.”</p><p>Diana sniffs.</p><p>“You can talk me into anything,” she laughs wetly.</p><p>“Is that a yes?” Something lifts inside of him, like the first time he hovered a few centimetres off the back porch. </p><p>“It’s a yes,” she says. He hears her sniff again. “We will go see him when he’s settled at home. How … how is he? Was the surgery okay?”</p><p>“It went well - it’s not going to be a quick recovery, but it all went according to plan, and he’s not in too much pain. I don’t know when he’ll be back in action. Oh, crap - Bruce wanted me to tell him he’d be there first thing tomorrow.”</p><p>“I’m sure he already knows,” Diana says. “I am pleased he is doing okay.”</p><p>“He is going to cut his hair, though.”</p><p>“No,” Diana moans. “His hair is beautiful.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Clark grins. He holds the lock of hair above his face, twisting it in his fingers. It curls softly at the end, and reminds him of the mop of curls Dick had when Bruce first took him in. “It’s a real tragedy. The masses will mourn.”</p><p>“You know, my mother did not let me cut my hair for many years,” Diana tells him, and for a moment he tunes out her voice, letting the sound of it wash warm with comfort over him. He presses the lock of hair to his lips, closing his eyes with a smile.</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p>Nine months later, after Dick has left the manor in the wake of a vicious argument, become Nightwing and cut his hair, after Bruce has closed Dick’s bedroom door and opened another to Jason, he’ll receive an envelope in the post from Clark, which he will open sitting at his desk in the study whilst Jason does his homework, lying flat on his stomach on the rug by the fire. Inside the envelope, on stationery from the <i>Daily Planet</i> will be a brief, succinct note - <i>Bruce, I thought you might like this. No need to return it. Best, Clark.</i></p><p>Bruce will pull from the envelope a lock of dark hair, still curling at one end and knotted at the other. After a long time looking at the lock, nestled in the palm of his hand, he’ll open the drawer of his desk and pull out a small trinket box; inlaid mother of pearl in a starburst design, taken from his mother’s dressing table. </p><p>Before he sets the lock of hair in the box, Bruce will pause, and hold it to his mouth, pressing his lips to it softly. For a moment, he’ll close his eyes, and a minute tremor will pass through his fingers, unnoticeable to all but a few people; Jason will not look up from his homework, distracted. </p><p>Then, Bruce will place the lock of hair in the box, close it, and shut it away in the desk drawer, and turn the key.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading! :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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